


And the Winter's So Long

by lotherington



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, fairytale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2012-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-20 23:22:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotherington/pseuds/lotherington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A re-telling/fusion with the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Crane_Wife#The_story_of_The_Crane_Wife">Crane Wife</a> tale. Inspired by The Decemberists' Crane Wife 1, 2 and 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the Winter's So Long

**Author's Note:**

> This started as an addition to [The Silent Stars Go By](http://archiveofourown.org/works/579514/chapters/1039980) but quickly became much longer than any of the other chapters (even if it's still not all that long), so it's here as a one-shot. I've been meaning to write a Crane Wife fusion for over a year and am pleased I eventually got down to it! I hope you enjoy it.

The snow fell slowly to the ground outside John’s back door. The sun had long since set and winter night had stolen over the small town. John’s breath spiralled up towards the starry sky as he turned to go into his house.

A plaintive cry sounded from the bushes at the edge of John’s garden. He frowned and turned back to the garden, hand resting against the doorframe as he listened. The cry came again.

Curious, John walked towards the source of the noise. He pulled the branches of the bush back and startled when he saw the enormous bird that lay there, an arrow through its wing, which it lifted feebly. John bent down and scooped the bird up, carrying it back to the damp, depressing cottage he called home.

He tended to the bird and some days later, it flew away.

*

The knock at the back door was unexpected, the next night. John limped to open it. A striking man stood there, his face proud and eyes pale. He lifted his chin. Moonlight flowed over him, over them both.

‘Can I help?’ John said.

The man kissed him. ‘I’m yours,’ he said. ‘Love me,’ he said.

He was. John did.

* 

Most nights, they fell into bed and made love amongst the ragged sheets, paying no mind to the spores of mould on the walls or the draught that flew under the door. They held hands and Sherlock (he’d given up his name after a moment’s thought) rested his head on John’s chest, afterwards.

‘I’m sorry I’ve no money. I’m sorry I can’t take care of you.’

‘I can help.’ Sherlock pushed his lips against John’s. ‘Let me help.’

*

Sherlock presented John with an exquisite embroidered gown after John had spent the afternoon tilling the garden.

‘I weaved it. You could sell it at market. It could help.’

John held it reverently in his hands. ‘You can make more like it?’

Nodding, Sherlock looked out onto the sunset. ‘You mustn’t ever watch me. You mustn’t ever see me weave.’

‘Of course.’ John nodded his agreement, still distracted by the garment he held. ‘Yes, of course.’

*

‘How did you get this?’ John murmured late one afternoon, curtains drawn against the daylight outside as he and Sherlock lay together in bed. He kissed the thick scar that lay just south of Sherlock’s underarm.

‘You remember.’ Sherlock rolled on top of John.

‘No, I don’t.’

‘You really do. Shh, now.’ They kissed. Sherlock’s body was warm and tight inside. They both shuddered and outside, the sun went down.

*

Sherlock grew ill. Sherlock grew tired.

John sold fine cloaks and dresses at market.

They eat well. They had coal for the fire. John was happy. Sherlock’s eyes sunk and he coughed. He slept.

*

‘Is there anything I can do?’ John asked, his voice quiet, when Sherlock’s hair began to fall out.

‘Yes. No. Leave me to weave.’ Sherlock coughed again, the sound cracked and hollow.

‘I can help. Let me help.’

‘Remember your promise.’ Sherlock shut himself away. John pressed his hand against the door.

*

‘You’re not well.’ John stroked Sherlock’s bare arm and kissed his neck. ‘You’re not well.’

*

John hesitated outside the door to the room where Sherlock wove, a bowl of soup in his hands. He had promised, but Sherlock had not been eating. He had promised, but Sherlock was so very ill.

He twisted the handle.

‘Sherlock, I know I--’

A bird sat on the stool John had built. Its feathers were threadbare, its eyes pale, and John watched as a feather was woven into the garment on the loom.

‘Sherlock--’

The bird turned and gave a plaintive cry John had heard months before. It spread its wings and John could see the scar of the wound he’d healed. The bird flew out of the window.

*

Weeks passed.

John mourned.


End file.
